


One-Way Plane Ticket

by SolidMercury



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Parenting, Closeted, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt, Family, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Homophobia, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Loneliness, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Secrets, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolidMercury/pseuds/SolidMercury
Summary: One-way plane ticket: destination unknown
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	One-Way Plane Ticket

My parents love me. I know they do. At least they love who they think I am.

What they think they see when they look at me is not who I really am. I haven’t corrected them, but they also never asked.

I haven’t corrected them partly because I know that then they would be forced to actually ask, if I’m not who they assume, who am I?

I don’t know who I am. I have no answer.

I’m like a leaf in the breeze, blowing everywhere but somehow never traveling very far from where I started.

I feel directionless, shapeless. Almost like a liquid, taking the shape of whatever container I’m in, changing with each new vessel. Redefining myself based on external factors so often, that I don’t know what shape I’d have just by myself. Maybe I don't even have one.

They love who they think I am, so that keeps my shape changing, so that I fit their newest container, every time. But does that love still count, if it’s based on an illusion? I hope so, but I suspect not.

Maybe they know, somewhere deep down, that I don’t truly fit their container, no matter how hard I try. I know they at least suspect. Either way, they don’t want confirmation. Confirmation makes it real.

The way things are now, the thoughts of who I really am flit around my head. I know similar thoughts flit around their heads too, at least occasionally. It seems like they think if you don’t acknowledge them, they’ll go away. I’ve thought that too, but I’ve tried it, it doesn't work. They’re still trying. I guess so am I.

I’m a screw too big for the only hole that exists, spinning around the top but never catching. Accomplishing nothing and going nowhere. Holding nothing together.

I don't know who I am, but I know some things I'm not. Not, not queer. 

My father always says he’s so grateful he doesn’t have a queer child. That sentence is always followed by reasons, excuses. Sentences that are supposed to make what he said less wrong. “It’s a harder life,” he says. He doesn’t want that life for his children. Of course, what good parent would?

But he hasn’t asked, he’s just assumed. Or maybe it’s hope? Hope is tempting, but some things are out of hopes reach, some things just are. You can hope to fly with everything you have, but if you jump, you'll still fall.

Whatever the reason, I can’t imagine myself shattering this illusion and taking away this reason they have for being grateful. Especially when there are so many other things they want from me that I don’t seem to be able to give. 

Maybe he thinks of me like snow. If he plows through it hard enough, whatever shape it was originally will just be gone. The snow can be reshaped, with enough force. He can make a snowman, a snow angel, a snowbank, whatever. What shape isn’t queer?

He’s right, it is a harder life. But somehow it feels like he’s the one making it harder.

There is a weight that lives in my chest. Sometimes I get distracted enough and all of a sudden I notice it's gone. Air comes in further with each breath so well I almost feel like I could just fly away. I never notice it happening, because my full attention has to be elsewhere. I notice after though. When the weight comes crashing back down, having been gone just long enough that I forgot how heavy it was. As free as I feel in those fleeting moments, sometimes I’m not sure it’s worth it, it’s a window into a world that I don’t know how to have. A world that is constantly slipping through my fingers.

My mother is organized. Everything in her world has a place where it belongs, a box that it fits in. I don't think she has a box for me.

My parents sound like monsters. They aren’t. My mother tended to my skinned knees and helped me with homework. My father protected me and cooked dinner. This just wasn’t in their plan. This puzzle piece does not fit into the world they live in. Their world is simpler, it's painted in more black and white than grey. No colors. 

Words rattle around in my head constantly. All the things I want to say. All the words I wish I was brave enough to force out. Sometimes they make it as far as my mouth, but my lips clamp down and trap them in.

I want them out.

I want them in.

I want them gone.

I want it to be OK.

The words are rattling more and more, like they have a mind of their own and are sick of being trapped in a hostile mind. Someday they will just break through, come spilling out, and spread through all the parts of my life, touching everything. 

Once they are out, I won't be able to catch them and force them back in. That’s terrifying.

It’s opening a door I know I will never be able to close again. I like to think it would be OK on the other side, but it could also be awful. The other side could be a flood of doubt, anger, or cold shoulders, rushing over me so I'm never dry again. 

It's a one-way plane ticket, destination: unknown. I've never been a gambler.

When the words do inevitably come bursting out, I know I’ll break their hearts.

Until then, mine breaks a little more every day. Maybe it will stop hurting when all the pieces I have are broken.

My father is a perfectionist. A high-achiever. It’s conditioned into me now too. The critical words in my head are in his voice most of the time. They come from him, but I think now they come from me too. Sometimes my own voice is even louder than his now. I think if he knew, that would make him proud.

I don’t know how to like myself, but if I don’t, who will?

I think I can see what my parents see in me when I look in the mirror. A girl with a smile that almost reaches her eyes. She looks happy, like she might be going places. I move my arm, and she moves hers too. So that’s me. I guess. Why does she look like a stranger?

At the end of the day, I know I’m weak for not straightening up and getting on the plane, for holding my words captive. It’s my life. I’m not a child. I know I have choices.

But at the end of each day, I remind myself that I’m afraid of things that are even worse than all of this hurt.

Being alone.

And I do love them. The way things are, they love me too. Maybe it’s fake, maybe it’s an illusion, but it’s what I have.

"Beggars can't be choosers," as my mother would say. 

I think, for now at least, an illusion is better than nothing at all.

I can’t be alone.

But maybe someday, I will figure out how to be brave and I'll walk down the jetway and onto the plane. A one-way ticket, destination: somewhere that's not here.


End file.
